Ooh boy it’s bleak out there. Ten Men is a memoir of a year of casual dating by Kitty Ruskin in which we quickly come to realise - or, rather, remember - that there’s a lot of shit men out there. It’s hard not to feel this is to some degree a form of misery porn by the fifth or sixth man whom Ruskin takes home only to endure at best unfulfilling sex, at worst awful sexual assault or rape. That’s not to criticise Ruskin in any shape or form. You have to hope for all of our sakes’ that the answer cannot be to simply stop trusting or trying, but equally it’s understandable why an increasing number of women (and, indeed, men) do just that. She deserves to be able to believe that not every man is like that. It sounds like, from the conclusion, that this is more happily the case now - a relief, for sure. As with a lot of books around this (see also: Men Who Hate Women by Laura Bates), there is a grimness you are forcing yourself to endure by reading it, and at this point none of it should be new to you, but that shouldn’t be a reason to turn away. Read it, feel it, do something about it.